


Things we lost in the Fire

by LiberaMeDelailah



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Comfort/Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, The Witcher Lore, Witcher Signs (The Witcher), referenced pogrom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28493130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberaMeDelailah/pseuds/LiberaMeDelailah
Summary: “…You don’t need to be a Witcher or a mage to learn to cast signs. Just a little connection to chaos.” Geralt explained.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 258





	Things we lost in the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write this for sOOOOO long. I'm so glad I was pushed to do it in the end. I hope you like it!  
> Inspired by: Jaskier isn't completely human.

_Geralt was in the middle of a pogrom, his arms and legs chained to stake. He was burning; he could smell the flesh of his legs aflame as the flames continue to dance on him. Around, countless faceless men and women watch and laughed as he turned to ashes._

_Such was the fate of a Witcher._

_He opened his eyes._

* * *

The night was silent, animals and humans sleeping alike; the stars filling the horizon with their brightness. Geralt was just returning to the campsite he shared with Jaskier after he successfully finished his hunt of a Nightwraith.

_The poor woman was to be married, and her soon-to-be husband had strangled her. Geralt had never seen a Wraith look as sad as she did. She danced with the Witcher, one final waltz, and then, the sword pierced her non-beating heart. She curtsied, a younger, much rounder face appearing before Geralt, and then, she vanished, leaving behind nothing but ashes._

In the bonfire, Jaskier sat silently, watching as the flames moved and created patterns in the forest’s floor. His hand, too, danced slightly, making a strange design in the air as he ignored everything around him. It was so strange, to see someone trust so much. Jaskier did not seem worried that he might be found by some stranger, he was confident that Geralt would find him if he ever came across any danger. The Witcher just… could not understand him, although, he did not look at such a gift as Jaskier’s trust with disdain, but with confusion.

Geralt watched him silently, hiding slightly behind a trunk as he observed Jaskier lose himself to the dance of his fingers.

It was peculiar, to see the Bard so lost in his inner world. It was not often that his mind was so far that his voice did not follow the trail his thoughts left behind. The Witcher observed; and saw the patterns in the movements of the hands that Jaskier was trying to imitate – and noticed, perplexed, that Jaskier’s eyes did hold a brightness that was unnatural to someone _incapable_ of doing what the bard wanted to accomplish.

Silently, the Witcher kept on watching. The movement of the fingers was refined and graceful, but Geralt was able to see where the mistakes laid and why Jaskier was not able to do the sign he was trying to cast. _Igni_ required a certain turn of the wrist that the bard was not doing, and the tip of the index was pointing in the wrong direction.

It reminded Geralt his childhood in Kaer Morhen, seeing his younger brothers trying to cast signs and failing for details such as the position of the wrist.

_Those memories soured quickly in Geralt’s mind, as he remembered the corpses of the children he had to pick up, and those that he held until they died. “Shhhh, shhh, brave little warrior” He would whisper in the crown of their hair. “You’ve done so well; you’ve fought your fight. You can sleep, brave, little soldier boy.” They all perished because humans feared; and there was nothing more dangerous than fear._

He heard as Roach neighed and approached Jaskier once the bard had gotten tired of his experimentation and decided to pick up his lute that laid neatly on his bedroll. “Ah, girl, missing daddy already?” The bard whispered – getting Geralt away from his cold, broken thoughts – using his hand up to pet Roach’s muzzle; she replied with a soft neigh. “Me too, has taken long in that contract, hasn’t he?”

Jaskier sat on his bedroll and began to play. His hands moved with finesse; motions so practiced that they were already instinct instead of memory. The bard did not sing, as if he were respecting nature’s silence by keeping his voice quieted.

Geralt heard a few more chords, watched a few more seconds as Jaskier lost himself in the motions of his music… _Lost himself in the hypnotic feeling that was ever-present whenever Jaskier played,_ and then made an appearance in the campsite, abandoning his hiding spot in the shadows of the trees.

Jaskier looked up to him with a gentle smile on his lips; and Geralt felt the edges of his mouth tremble as he tried his hardest not to return the gesture. The Witcher sat by the fire; Roach approaching him and nuzzling his cheek with her muzzle. “Was it a wife?” Jaskier asked, looking down once again to his lute, caressing the strings as if they were the skin of a lover.

Geralt hummed, hoping it would be enough of a reply. The Witcher petted Roach on her jowl one last time before she retired to the shadows of the forest to eat from the grass she found underneath the trunks of trees. “I hope she found rest.” Was all Jaskier said, having understood the Witcher without Geralt having to say a word.

The bard returned to his playing, and the night went on peacefully, as the two of them kept each other company. Geralt did not ask about Jaskier’s _Igni,_ but before the two of them retired for the night, the Witcher made sure to use the sign to revive the flame of the bonfire; making sure Jaskier was watching the way his fingers moved.

* * *

The next time Geralt found Jaskier trying to cast Igni, was in an inn room that the two of them were sharing. The Witcher was supposedly out in a contract, hunting a nest of drowners that were bothering the townsfolk.

Geralt took care of the drowners relatively quickly, it was, after all, a small nest of five. When he returned to the inn, he expected to find Jaskier playing on the tavern, but was (pleasantly) surprised that, no, the bard had retired early for the night.

Geralt went to their room, opening the door quietly, expecting to find Jaskier sleeping. What he found was a shirtless bard, sitting on the floor in front of a bathtub, with his back to the door. He was, once again, doing the same movements with his hands. Geralt was unable to see much, since Jaskier’s back was facing the Witcher, but he was _sure_ that he could smell _magic._ Not like Yennefer’s; lilac and gooseberries, but something more delicate, softer. It was like, lavender, and vanilla, with a hint of pine. The hand movement must have been still sloppy, because the smell of magic was subtle, but it was _closer_.

“It’s your index.” Geralt found himself saying, startling Jaskier out of his concentration and making him give a weak – barely perceptible – jump.

“Geez, Geralt, would it kill you to _knock?_ ” Jaskier sounded exasperated, but the way his voice broke at the end gave away the fact that he was embarrassed. “Anyways, it’s not like I can do it. Not a Witcher or anything, it is just that-” He tried to explain himself, when truly, he didn’t need to.

Geralt hummed, and closed the door behind himself, crouching besides Jaskier. “…You don’t need to be a Witcher or a mage to learn to cast signs. Just a little connection to chaos.” He explained, as he took hold of Jaskier’s wrist, turning it upright. “You’ve got your index pointing in the wrong direction too, and you need to widen the position of your middle and ring finger.” Geralt’s thumb gently guided Jaskier’s entire hand. “You’ve almost got it” The Witcher whispered, close to the bard’s ear.

Geralt felt the slight shiver that went through Jaskier, and could smell once more the sweet, delicate smell of magic that was emanating from the bard. The Witcher could tell that Jaskier had a strong connection to chaos, something waiting to be unleashed, but the bard probably never had anyone teach him how to channel his power.

Soon, from the tip of Jaskier’s fingers, a gentle flame was lit, and the bard looked at his hand in awe as he saw the flame born and die within seconds. “To heat the water, you need more practice. You could easily burn the tub, or yourself, if you’re not careful.” Geralt was looking at Jaskier’s surprised and exhilarated face as the bard continued to move his fingers delicately.

“Can we do that again?” Jaskier finally asked, with the innocence of a child. Geralt prided himself to be a cold, unfeeling monster, but the way Jaskier looked at him with his eyes so unnaturally blue… Well. It made him relent quite easily to the bard’s request.

* * *

It took two weeks for Geralt to teach Jaskier how to cast _Igni_ properly. Two weeks where Jaskier almost burnt a forest, a house, their campsite, their bedrolls, and their eyebrows, but in the end, Jaskier managed to catch the movement of fingers and wrist and learn how to properly cast Igni without burning himself. Geralt had studied Jaskier all the while, trying to understand why he did have enough of a natural connection to chaos that, even when he was casting the sign improperly, nature still tried to comply underneath his command – especially on the inn. 

The Witcher thought on asking a druid, or perhaps a sorceress – but in the end, he discarded the idea. An untrained mage, sorcerer, or druid was a dangerous thing, and the first thing they would try to do is to set Jaskier on a training path, pressuring him to Ban Ard, the magical academy for boys, to refine his abilities. It was too dangerous for the bard; Geralt being especially well- _acquainted with how bad the education system of the magical academies was._

_Perhaps in the future when things were better with Yennefer. When he had properly apologized to her… Maybe then, he would ask her._

He kept training Jaskier himself. Slowly showing him other signs such as Quen, to protect himself from enemies, or Axii, in case he ever needed to escape unscathed from a dangerous encounter with an angry husband or wife. Jaskier was talented, his magic growing ever stronger the more he practiced, the signs becoming as much of a second nature to him as playing the lute was.

One night, after Geralt returned from hunting them dinner, Jaskier was playing one of his new compositions. His voice was softer, gentler, as he lured the inexistent audience into the story of a woman; whose love was so strong it found a way to remain even after she had passed.

Geralt observed him, from the corner of his eye, as he cleaned away the rabbits for their dinner. Jaskier’s eyes were bright as he sang, to the point where it seemed unnatural. He was lost to his own voice, as his fingers embraced the lute as if it was a child. Geralt could feel the chaos, could taste it on his tongue; the sweetness of vanilla with the nostalgia that came from the pine. It was almost the smell of home, and yet, of a land, far, far away.

The tune came to a sudden end, bringing Geralt out of his enchantment as he saw Jaskier write away a few new lines in a notebook that laid on his thigh. The bard was completely unaware of the power that his songs held; the power that he, himself, was holding. It was extraordinary, in the way that you see chaos and order dancing together in a never-ending cycle. So, it hit Geralt then, with a numbed type of surprise, that Jaskier was simply not completely human, and the chaos he was harvesting so naturally was born from the part of him that was more attuned to the world underneath their own.

Geralt did not ask the question that was itching in the tip on his tongue; letting that knowledge linger in the space between the two in silence.

* * *

_Geralt was tired, so, so very tired. His eyes were heavy, and he was bleeding from his side, when Jaskier used Igni for the first time to defend them._

The two were caught by surprise by a group of bandits, and they planned on stealing Roach and leaving them alone until they realized Geralt was a Witcher… Once they saw his golden eyes, and his two swords, the oldest of the bandits laughed; a sound so deep it reminded Geralt of the void. “I’ve always wanted to kill a Witcha!”

They had taken Jaskier as a hostage and decided to do with Geralt whatever they pleased; it really did not take the Witcher long to surrender once there was a dagger to the bard’s neck.

The bandits took pleasure in hurting Geralt, kicking him and cutting him with daggers and swords – _and perhaps that was how it was always supposed to end for the Witcher_. After all, that was the fate of a Witcher.

To die at the hand of monsters. To perish because of merciless bandits who were itching for violence… It almost sounded poetic.

However, Jaskier did not like the idea of poetic deaths. Geralt’s eyes could not see much, but his ears were able to pick it up when Jaskier casted Aard; pushing the man who was holding him back; using a hand to catch the dagger and cut him in the throat. After, Geralt felt it when Jaskier threw himself over the Witcher, and he felt when he casted Quen to shield them. Then… The Witcher felt the _heat._ Unrelenting, unforgiving, so strong it would’ve turn _stone_ to _ashes._ Geralt could not see, but he heard the screams for mercy, for clemency, and Jaskier did not show any. The bard’s voice was cold when he whispered, _“Would you have shown mercy, had he asked for any?”_.

Geralt did not remember anything after that, he was just aware of the darkness, and a pair of blue eyes watching over him.

_He dreamt of an endless sea of people that were surrounding him, all of them faceless as they looked at him; as if expecting something from him. He was chained to a stake and the stake was burning, and everyone laughed as they saw the Monster burn._

_His calves were melting, and the muscle beneath was visible, and he felt like he was dying and yet, still alive. The hollow eyes of the sea of people stared at him as burnt and yet all everyone did was laugh. He felt his throat constrict, as he tried to scream. His eyes itched as he felt the tears run free. He was so afraid, and yet, no one seemed to listen._

_As a miracle from above, the fire engulfing the Monster turned blue, and in the ocean of laughter a voice screamed; a shriek so loud asking for justice; and then, there was silence._

_The flames did burn no more, and Geralt’s chains in the stake loosened until the Monster was free. For the first time, Geralt breathed and the sea of eyeless faces vanished, from their ashes, a Forest was born. A single man stood before Geralt._

_The Witcher opened his eyes,_ only to be faced with that same blue of his dreams, the flames, the eyes. Geralt’s head was resting on Jaskier’s thigh, with the bard’s hand running patterns across his scalp. The Witcher looked up, to see Jaskier’s stare on him.

“You killed them.” Geralt whispered in awe.

A gentle smile laid on the bard’s lips, one that did not quite reach his eyes. “And I would do it again.”

Geralt could not find his voice for a long time after that and yet, Jaskier simply continued to run his fingers through Geralt’s white strands of hair. The bard did not talk, he was still angry, his heart still beating loudly in his chest. Geralt raised one of his hands, and caught Jaskier’s with it, bringing his palm to rest on his chest, intertwining their fingers.

“Thank you.” Geralt whispered.

Jaskier brought up their intertwined hands and kissed each of Geralt’s knuckles softly. “No.” The bard murmured weakly. “Thank _you._ ”

Silence reigned between them. After a moment, the anger was placated, and from the ashes of resentment, a _resolution_ was born. Geralt felt it, a promise silently ironing itself into the bard's mind. A minute passed, and then, Jaskier swore, while kissing each of Geralt’s fingers, that he would protect him from harm.

Geralt believed him.

* * *

_And Geralt dreamt often, of a forest filled with tall, old trees and ancient magic, with smell of lavender and vanilla and pine. A forest where the fire did not burn and there were no stakes; and no pogrom would ever come to claim him. There, in the mist of it all, a man no older than thirty sat above a rock, his hands occupied with a lute. From his fingers, flames were born; and they danced to the rhythm of his tempo._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! The title is based on youtube.com/watch?v=MGR4U7W1dZU&list=FLtPmtIqcdMX1s8s-adkw0DQ&index=460 this song. I thought this was going to turn up funnier than it did. Trust me, it was an accident.


End file.
